


Coming Home Again

by S_Faith



Series: Comfortable Rhythm (RPF) [2]
Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2019-11-24 21:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Unconventional relationships are no less treasured.





	Coming Home Again

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of sorts of the previous RPF story ["A Comfortable Rhythm"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18170096); as with that one, no names are given, but I don't think you'll need them.
> 
> As with its predecessor, there is a rather modern interpretation of the marriage state here. If that sort of thing bugs you, don't read.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is all speculation and my imagination run amok. To the best of my knowledge, none of this is even remotely accurate.

It feels like coming home again.

It's dark. Work starts tomorrow. The set, the flat, is empty but fully dressed, a perfect opportunity to stand in the centre of the main room and breathe it in; in his mind's eye he could crop out the lights and the cameras and fully immerse himself; fully embrace the return to a character whose skin he enjoyed being in.

His first visit to this set more than a decade ago had marked the start of his professional relationship with her… as had another relationship. His wife had always been very open with their own relationship, had been no-questions-asked regarding his need to immerse himself in his work; undertaking a physical relationship with this particular co-star (the first and only time since his marriage he'd approached another woman), given the nature of their onscreen role, seemed to be a natural progression.

He had never really gone into the details of the agreement between himself and his wife; his word was accepted that he wasn't sneaking around behind his wife's back, that it wasn't a tawdry affair, and that it was not going to lead to anything more than what it was. He hadn't, however, counted on it becoming nearly as important a relationship and a friendship to him as the one he enjoyed with his wife. 

When he'd seen his once and future co-star, friend and lover last February in Los Angeles, the first time in far too long, he perhaps had stretched the truth a little in allowing her to believe she had overt permission, but he didn't want to get into semantics at a time when she obviously needed a friend. Needed _him_.

Returning to the present, he takes in a deep breath, closes his eyes, then lets it out slowly. When he opens them again, he sees the sofa, the fireplace, the photos on the wall, the books on the shelves, and he smiles. Quite without thinking, he says quietly, "She'll be home soon."

There's a hand on his shoulder just then, a soft murmur behind him. "She's home now."

He turns and there she is. He doesn't even notice what she's wearing because her eyes are so bright and shining, her smile so delightful, that it hardly matters. His surprise must be visible because she giggles.

"I wasn't expecting to see you until tomorrow," he says.

"I know," she says in response. "I came earlier because… well, I hoped to see you before." She's already speaking with her character's voice, her accent, and she endears herself to him even more; he has always found her natural Texan accent a bit unconvincing. "Do you find it a bit odd to be back?"

He shakes his head. "Not odd at all."

She grins. "Yeah." She runs her hand from his shoulder and down his forearm. "A suit already?"

"Of course."

She looks pensive. "You always did look good in a suit."

"And you in a short skirt," he volleyed back as her outfit registered with him: pink blouse with the top two buttons undone, a black miniskirt, bare legs and that necklace sitting above cleavage that was once again restored to glorious fullness. She was blonde, too; of course she was. He loved the way blonde hair looked on her, a little longer, brushing against her shoulders. "I presume you've got the correct pants on?"

She laughs. "This outfit would not be complete without some granny pants."

"Naturally." He lifts his arm and puts it around her shoulders, pulling her to him, planting a kiss into her hair. "Oh, it's good to be back."

"It is." Her arm slides around his waist. "It's so easy to slip into this."

"It is at that."

He tightens his grip on her shoulder; she squeezes his hip. He does not think he is misreading the signals he's getting. Cautiously he says, "I don't think there's anyone else here."

"Sure as hell hope not," she says, her voice playful. Her hand slips down over his arse. Definitely not misreading.

"Hmm," he says throatily, turning his head to place a kiss on the hair at her temple. She raises her chin, looks up at him, and in one quick movement she turns and is on her toes, covering his mouth with hers, running her nails over his sideburns, weaving her fingers up into his hair. Before he even thinks about doing so he's got his arms around her, bringing her up against him. With every kiss he wants another, and each one he takes is a little more aggressive. His hands press hard into her backside to push her into him. The contact, the friction of her moving against him, the gap of time since they'd last been together… it all has an inevitable effect on him.

She breaks away and chuckles then, with that devilish smile so commonly worn by her character, she takes him by the hand and tugs him towards the chaise-style sofa, which still has a drop cloth, a sheet, draped casually over it.

"We could go—" he begins, but stops when she shakes her head.

"It's got props all over it," she says. "They haven't finished making the bedroom up yet."

The sofa it is.

"How do you—" he begins again. She interrupts again.

"Just sit down."

He does. She reaches up under her skirt and takes off her pants—big, cotton granny-style, as promised—then tosses them to the floor, where they land at his feet. She then steps forward, plants one foot to either side of his own, then sits on his knees, reaching forward for his belt buckle, button and fly.

"And you say you're nothing like him," she says in a low voice, dipping her fingers into his trouser front. "I think you're exactly like him."

"How am I—"

She has a knack for taking the words from his mouth tonight; this time it's due to the grasp she has on him as she draws him out, then takes his mouth with hers again. She shimmies further forward onto his lap. He welcomes the feel of her fingers flitting over him, then she grasps again, pulls slowly and firmly, then faster and faster until he starts bucking up a little into her, because God he wants her and she's driving him mad.

"For all the control you show in your everyday life, you like being dominated," she whispers close to his ear, explaining her comment at last. "You like when I dominate you."

He cannot deny this; instead he places his hands on her hips, urging her forward, but she is not yet to be persuaded.

"Not going to be that easy," she teases, relentless with her motion, at least until he has the bright idea to cajole her in other ways.

He brings his hands up to her breasts, cupping them, then with one hand reaches for the topmost fastened button on her blouse ( _Silk_ , he thinks in passing) and releases it, then the next down and the next. She falters in her ministrations as he places his other hand flat against her back, then leans forward and into her bosom. His tongue darts out between where her breasts press against one another, eliciting a gasp from her. He undoes the rest of the buttons, then with a twist of his finger and thumb unfastens the clasp on her bra; the garment easily releases as it is clearly at least a size too small for her now.

His lips find, his teeth graze gently over the hardened point, and she sucks in a breath quickly. Having no further fasteners to undo, he brings his free hand to her other breast, runs his thumb over the nipple, caressing it then pressing it up into her.

"Naughty," she gasps, then finally, to his great relief, lifts herself up, grabs him and guides him to her. As she sinks down onto him, as he feels the hot wetness surround him, they each groan a little in response. She rocks her hips quicker and quicker still, fingers in his hair as he continues lavishing her breasts with frenzied attention. He steals a glance up to her and she's got her lower lip between her teeth; clearly she wants to cry out but she doesn't want to make any loud sounds, doesn't want to attract any undue notice. He completely understands; it is an Herculean task not to moan out with every undulation she makes.

He feels his climax building and moves his hands back to her hips, thrusting as best he can up into her in time with her own movements. She threads her arms around his neck then kisses him again, long, languid, teasing with her teeth as they take his lower lip, dragging back oh so slowly, to the point of—

His sudden release is so powerful, feels so good, that he cannot rein in his moan. His fingertips are white on her hips as she continues, and even as he regains his senses he wants to hasten and heighten her own climax. One of his hands comes free and reaches up, under her skirt, and his thumb finds the spot where their bodies meet. He presses hard.

This causes her to mutter an obscenity that lights his fire all over again.

Within a few minutes, as he continues his attentions to her, she is panting into his ear, her breasts up against his collarbones, his mouth against her throat, her hands grasping onto the edge of the sofa; with a final cry she succumbs to a cascading orgasm that overcomes her and, by extension, him as well. She kisses him again, and he reciprocates utterly.

As she comes down from her peak, his hands go under her shirt and along the small of her back to hold her against him. They sit like that in one another's embrace for many moments, until she lets out a long, contented sigh. "Just the cure for jetlag," she jokes, then rears back to kiss him once more. He chuckles low in his throat.

As she draws away, looking down upon him with wild hair and shining eyes, he asks, "Staying in the usual hotel?"

She nods. "Well, until the flat's ready on Tuesday. You're welcome to run lines with me any time."

He laughs.

"Oh, unless…." Her face crinkles with concern. "Well, I suppose I should have asked that before we, well, shagged."

"It's all right," he says, meaning that if it had been a problem he wouldn't have done it. She smiles. "Of course," he adds, "it's not the sort of thing she'd ever want to discuss with you over coffee."

"No, no, never," she says. "Not looking a gift horse in the mouth."

She kisses him once more and he is, for a moment, tempted to lower her onto the faux fur rug and pleasure her again; at least until he hears footsteps from behind her… and hears them too late.

The cocked eyebrow of the newcomer is matched only by the wry grin.

"Well," drawls the newcomer, his brown hair tousled artfully, his hands stuffed into his jean pockets. "Didn't see this coming. Literally and figuratively." He pauses, then adds, "Getting in a little rehearsal time in, are we?"

There's no use denying what he's walked in on, particularly as her bra is undone and her shirt is wide open. She has gone bright red with embarrassment and works to rectify this state. He tries not to let her movement distract him as he asks, "What are you doing here?"

"Reminiscing," he says, "and wanting a look around for nostalgia's sake. A little too vivid a recreation for my tastes. Sorry to interrupt."

"It's all right," she says, very tactfully retreating away on his lap so that he has a chance to restore his trousers. "Besides, you never suspected anything before."

"Before? You mean…" He trails off.

"Yes," she says, rising to her feet unsteadily but confidently.

"As long as everyone's kosher with it, I guess," he says with doubt in his voice. "Suppose it does bring authenticity to the role."

"We've kept it discreet," she says, "and would prefer to keep it that way."

He looks from her to his on-screen rival, then back to her again. "I'm a little offended, truth be told," he says to her at last, then grins. "You never suggested _we_ do any role immersion together."

At this she laughs. They know he's teasing. Privately he hopes he will keep his word and keep their secret.

"I'd ask about going out for dinner or drinks," he says to them, "but… well. Filming starts early."

He nods to his colleague. "See you then."

He begins to walk away, but turns back once more. "Speaking as someone who knows a thing or two about public exposure: if you're going to continue, I'd suggest _not_ continuing with this as your venue of choice."

"Understood," he said. She agrees by nodding. With that, the two of them are left alone once more.

From her higher vantage point she meets his gaze. "Lord, if that had been anyone else…"

He chuckles in his nervous relief. "I know."

She does too, then runs slightly shaky fingers through her locks as she sits down beside him. She's smiling though as she speaks again. "I could use some dinner," she says. "You know." She pauses, for a moment looking hesitant, or possibly even shy. "If you want to order in with me at the hotel."

"I'd love that," he finds himself saying. "Love to catch up with you."

She smiles, and even before she says a thing she leans forward and gives him a sweet little kiss, then pulls back and flushes pink again. "Sorry."

"What?"

"You didn't hear my stomach growl?" she asks. "Pretty sure they heard it in Manchester."

He chuckles, then rises to his feet before helping her up too. He recalls the hotel she likes has an excellent room service menu, and truth be told he was feeling quite hungry too.

They agree to arrive separately—"Room 307," she advises, "and I'll order something as soon as I get there"—and with that he kisses her again, pulls her petite form against him for a quick hug, before they part.

He decides to stop at a store to pick her up a little something that is sure to make her smile, and when he arrives at the hotel with his quarry in hand (in a carrier bag, anyway), she not only smiles but laughs when he pulls out and hands her the box.

"Chocolate. Oh, God, _Milk Tray_. Haven't had this in years. If I break out in spots it's all your fault." She tears into the box, then takes a bite of one. At his undoubtedly amused look, after chewing and swallows, she says, "I'm an adult and I can eat dessert first if I like."

"Hope what you ordered will go well with this," he says, pulling the bottle of chardonnay out of the bag. "Hear this was a very good year."

"You're really sort of too into this," she says sceptically, but chuckles all the same. 

Only then does it register that she's changed clothing. Gone is the blouse and the miniskirt ensemble from earlier, replaced with a more comfortable-looking dress of pale yellow linen; it's looser than her previous outfit, but not so much that the curves of her body have become obliterated. He ponders that it's meant to be looser than it is because the top seems a bit too snug. She chuckles; he looks up and meets her gaze.

"Yes," she says pointedly. "They have gotten bigger."

"Didn't mean to stare," he says sheepishly. "You look terrific."

"I always forget this happens when I fill out a bit," she goes on.

"You look great," he says. After a moment, as his eyes wander down again, he continues, "You look sexy."

She smirks. "Get that a lot in London," she says. "Must be the boobs."

"That's rubbish," he says. "From what I've seen you get that a lot in the US, too."

"Perhaps," she concedes, looking very kittenish.

He remembers the news of her and at least one boyfriend in the intervening time since last he'd seen her. "You can't tell me your boyfriend doesn't think so, or say so… or show appreciation in other ways."

"Boyfriend?" she asks. "Oh, you must be thinking of that Disneyland thing." She shakes her head. "We're just friends."

"It's all right if you're more than that," he says, though feels an odd (and misplaced) twinge of jealousy. He reaches for the box in her hands, takes it to set it down with the wine, then clasps her hand to bring her closer. "You can downplay it all you like, but I've always thought you were," he says in all sincerity. "Especially as you are right now."

She looks up into his eyes; her own are sparkling. "With boobs," she says.

"And hips," he adds. "And an arse." His hands come around to cup that very part of her body.

"Food's coming," she reminds as she leans into him, then kisses him.

They commence to such a hot round of kissing, his hands roaming over her body through the light fabric of the dress, hands kneading into her arse and driving her against his groin, that he starts to think maybe he'll come before the food does; there's a sharp rapping at the door, though, and they break away sharply.

"Sorry," she says. "Don't know what came over me."

"It's all right." He clears his throat. "Best answer your door. I'll… go into the loo."

Closing the door behind himself he bends over the sink and splashes water into his face to try to calm whatever had come over him. Leaning against the sink, he looks up into to the mirror, into his own eyes, hardly moving until he hears a quiet knocking on the door. He takes in a breath, stands up straight, then leaves the loo and immediately is accosted by the smell of fried food.

"They thought I was crazy, I'm sure," she says, "ordering fish and chips in a place like this, but… had a huge craving. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," he says, "but they're going to be a little cross with me if I don't fit into my suits."

"You'll be fine," she says dismissively, then winks. "Think we've proactively worked it off."

They take the food and the wine (along with the a couple of wine glasses) into the sitting room area. He pours the wine, then settles in with his food.

"Hope you phoned home," she says after most of their respective dinners are gone in a silence that is not uncomfortable. "I wouldn't want anyone to worry." Not just anyone. He knows exactly to whom she is referring.

"They're not home," he says. "She's taken the boys down to see her family."

Visibly she relaxes, flits her glaze up to him. "Oh."

"Yes," he says. "Don't worry."

After a few more minutes, after devouring the rest of her chips, she sips her wine again. He watches her watching him, watches her knit her brow. "You know, I wanted to ask about something that's been sort of niggling at the back of my mind," she says at last.

"Ask away," he replies.

"I read some interview or something," she begins.

"Interview? With whom? Me?"

"Your wife," she says. "She talked about how devoted and faithful you are."

"What's wrong with that?"

She raises a brow. "Seems an odd thing for a woman to say who allows her husband to sleep with other people. Tell me the truth," she says. "What does she really say about this?"

He sets his wine glass down, meets her eyes. There's no more avoiding full disclosure. "We do have an understanding," he admits at last. "Intellectually she knows it could happen, has happened or will happen. She doesn't know when or where… or with whom. She just knows that I will always come home to her."

She looks traumatised; she's gone pale and slightly slack-jawed. "So I don't have permission," she says; the accent has started to slip. "That's just fucking great. Why did you lie to me?"

This was not an auspicious way to begin their next professional endeavour. "Now wait," he says. "I did not lie."

"You didn't tell me the whole truth, and that's almost as bad." 

"I kept the essential truth there," he says, "which was more important to me at the time, because you needed me." He stops for a moment, overcome with a small realisation of his own situation in February, and adds, "To be honest… I needed you too."

"I'm not sure that makes me feel better," she says. 

He thinks about her own relationships with other men, and something that has never before occurred to him clicks into place. "I have a question for _you_ ," he asks. "What about you?"

"I don't understand."

"Well, it seems awfully strange that both times we filmed together, just after we finished, you split with your fiancé, then the second time your boyfriend. I never questioned that." He reaches for her hand, speaks very gently. "Tell _me_ the truth. Was I the reason for those splits? Did you not ask in advance about you and I?"

She looks down, caught in her hypocrisy, and takes a few moments to compose her thoughts. "We were apart during filming… I foolishly believed it would be easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission," she says. "Until afterwards of course, when I realised how stupid I had been. _Twice_. I ended up confessing all even though I could easily have kept it to myself, because… well, I just couldn't keep it from them."

"Confessing all?"

"Well, not your name— _that_ would have been idiotic. Though… I suspect _he_ knew. I mean, he came and visited the set and everything."

Her former fiancé had been the one to visit, and suddenly the coldness the man had shown him when they had worked together on a subsequent project made sense. Despite this, he feels a wave of relief. "And your current boyfriend?"

"I told you we're just friends."

"And you're not just saying that?"

"I'm not just saying that, I swear." She raises her hand, draws a cross over her heart with her thumb.

He tightens his grip on the hand he still holds. "Please tell me this doesn't change anything," he says. "I promise you it is all right for me to be here."

She still looks dubious. "You were bluffing, then?"

"What?" he asks, dumbfounded.

"When you offered to call your wife and have her tell me it was all right?"

He smiles. "No I wasn't," he says. "I just would have had to explain a bit more to her first, but I was glad not to get into it all the same."

"So it's okay generally speaking," she says, "but she doesn't know it's me specifically?"

"Yes. Only two ground rules. Be safe. Be discreet."

"Hmm," she says. "So have there been others?"

"I don't do this with every beautiful actress I happen to work with," he says. "Only you."

"Only me… so far?"

He shrugs a little. "I haven't been inclined."

Though she purses her lips, she seems touched. "Cross your heart?"

He lets go of her hand then mimics her action of a moment before, drawing an X with his thumb just over his heart. "Swear."

She smiles. "Why am I so bloody special?" she asks, accent restored… as well as her spirits, apparently.

"No idea," he says drolly, then glances up to her and smiles. "Maybe I _am_ him a little more than I'd like to admit. And maybe, just maybe, you're _her_."

At this she grins almost shyly. "That would explain a lot," she says. She picks up her wineglass, drains it, then holds it out for some more. 

"Craving satisfied?" he asks.

"Oh yes," she says. "Really hit the spot. And you?"

"Absolutely," he says, not intending for it to have a double meaning, but one which seems to hang in the air anyway, especially considering what they'd been doing before the arrival of the food.

"You know," she says thoughtfully, "you seem a bit overdressed."

Despite those words possessing an equally dual meaning, her statement was actually true, with her pretty but simple dress and him wearing a courtroom-ready suit and tie. She leans over, reaches up and loosens the tie, then undoes the button at his throat, running a finger over where his pulse lies. He brings his hand up and strokes the skin of her upper arm; it is impossibly soft under the pads of his fingers.

"Come here," he commands in a whisper, then reaches down and brings his hand to her hip, pulling her close. He spends a moment studying her face before cupping her cheek in his hand, then lowers himself to brush his lips against hers; instantly he feels the sparks rise to meet him. Slowly, reverently, he kisses her; at first almost chastely, then with far more patient passion than earlier. He covers his mouth over hers, slowly and reverently bringing sighs and other appreciative sounds from deep in her throat.

She moans a little as he draws back. "I'm pretty sure," she says breathily, "the bed here is not covered in props."

"What's the rush?" he asks as he nuzzles into her neck, grazing his teeth lightly on the side of her neck just as he brings his hand over her breast. His thumb teases her nipple before pushing up and into her, then slides down to place maddening pressure between her legs. She gasps.

"Cruel," she says in a strained voice. He feels her hand on his thigh, then brushing over his burgeoning erection; it's his turn to groan a little and as he does she takes the opportunity to break away from his kiss. "Let's see how you like it," she says mysteriously before pressing down over his fly again, working open the button, working down the fly, then drops her head down.

He feels her lips upon him.

"All right, darling," he says abruptly. "You've made your point."

"'Darling,' eh? You really _are_ him," she teases. "And no, I don't think I have." With that she draws whorls with her tongue until she reaches the tip. She teases with her teeth and lips until he finds himself on the verge of losing control.

As she takes him into her mouth and continues her special brand of torture, he realises there's only one thing to be done.

With her head in his lap, he arches over and reaches for the hem of her dress, drawing the fabric higher and higher up her leg. He turns her hips, kisses her hipbone, her abdomen, then the front of her cotton pants.

He feels rather than hears her exhale quickly and repeatedly as he works her pants towards her knees. After delivering additional light kisses to her sensitive inner thighs, he pushes her leg aside then drives his tongue forward and into her wetness. She moans protractedly. He's grateful that the sofa is wider than most because he can turn so that she's over him, one knee to each side; she arches her hips into him as she continues her oral fixation, raking her nails over his own trouser-clad backside. He brings his hands around and cups her arse, fingers pressing into the small of her back, lapping at her like he's quenching a long-standing thirst. Even as she trembles with her own pleasure she never wavers, pulling her lips tight over him as she moves up and down.

As she shifts, the lower half of her dress drifts down until the lightweight yellow fabric has tented around his head. The visual image of her riding him with her dress fanned out around him further excites him.

He wants to bring her to climax before he comes, but with the way she is caressing him with her hands as well as her mouth, he just can't hold back any longer; with a loud groan he thrusts his hips up into her and his release overtakes him. He drives his tongue harder into her with each lunge forward; she is tenacious in staying with him until he's spent, despite her own rapidly increasing moans and sighs.

He wants to satisfy her more than he's ever done before, so he employs his fingertips as well as his tongue. Within moments she is writhing and moaning atop him until finally she tenses, shudders, then cries out very loudly, a cry which turns into a moan as he feels wave after ecstatic wave overtake her.

She leans forward, resting upon his raised knees. He brings his quivering hands up to push the dress away from his face, then brings them to her hips, stroking upwards on her back. The fabric of her dress is so damp from sweat it's sticking to her skin; he is feeling quite uncomfortable in his suit, though quite enjoys having her while she's still dressed, knows his being in the suit is a turn-on for her, too. He turns, sits up then reaches to take her in his arms.

"Oh my lord," she whispers between gasps for air, pressing her cheek against his throat, then turning to kiss his neck. "I need a shower after that. Or at least a cigarette."

He chuckles at this, turns and kisses her again.

"I've missed that," she confesses.

"So have I," he says. "She doesn't like that."

It was no secret who he meant, and she sat up and looked at him with a surprised expression. "No?"

"No."

"Oh, the joy she's missing out on," she says, leaning to rest on his shoulder again, running her fingernails over his chest.

They rise after a few moments of this bliss, clean up their plates then put them on the tray aside for pickup. She takes a moment to hang the 'Do not disturb' tag on the door. They then proceed towards the bedroom, and towards the master bath within.

His own clothes are quite rumpled and damp, and he hopes hanging them will allow them to become a bit more presentable for when he has to put them on again. In the meantime, he intends on joining her in that shower, because he knows how refreshing the hot water will be on aching muscles, and how much he'll enjoy showering with her.

When they retreat to the bed they curl up as if to retire to sleep. He does not intend on making love with her again after the shower, but he's drawn to kiss her good night; one kiss leads to another and the feel of her warm, pink, soft skin against his is too much to resist. He parts her thighs with his hands and she welcomes him enthusiastically.

When he falls to sleep, it is deep and uninterrupted, at least until the telephone begins ringing. When he opens his eyes, he realises the sun's not up yet and that this is probably her wake up call.

She shifts on the bed and fumbles for the phone. "Yes?" she asks groggily. Silence. "Yes, thank you. I'm up." More silence. "Yes, please. Two. Thanks very much."

She hangs up the phone. He turns to her. "Two?"

"Presumed you'd like some coffee."

"Excellent presumption." He sits up and yawns, then runs his fingers through his hair. She has reclined against the pillows again, and though she looks sleepy, she's rosy-cheeked and smiling.

"It's going to be a very long day," she says.

"Mmm," he agrees.

"And we'll have to be on best behaviour."

"I'll just save it for when the camera's running," he retorts. 

Indeed, one of the first things they shoot is a scene that has their characters quarrelling, then making up with a kiss which hints to more after the camera cuts away. They get it down in three takes; their kiss is applauded each time, and production assistants are overheard praising the authenticity of the scene. Afterward, though, he must excuse himself to his dressing room to calm his desire. She doesn't dare join him; it would be too suspicious.

He will just have to be patient and wait until they break for the night.

There's a rapping on his door, though, which confuses him. "Yes?"

"It's me."

It's a familiar male voice. "Come on in."

Tentatively he comes in, looking around the room. "You're alone?"

"Yes, of course."

He closes the door behind himself. "Thought maybe…"

"No," he interrupts. "That'd be inappropriate."

His visitor laughs. "Ah, I see. Did not realise what the rules of engagement were." He leans against the door. "So… you and her."

"Please don't make a big deal about this," he says resignedly.

"Oh, I won't," he says in return, "at least not in public. But it's bloody good fun harassing you in private." 

He cannot help but laugh.

"You know," he continues from his place by the door; his tone's a bit more serious. "If it hadn't been for you and her, I never would have agreed to come back. You're like family. A sort of weird, dysfunctional family, granted, but a family nonetheless. I mean, I'm rather looking forward to you punching me."

He chuckles again and nods in agreement. Softly he says, "It feels like coming home again."

_The end._


End file.
